


“Happy birthday, Robin.”

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Kisses [54]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, First Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26909470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: We can never have too many takes on Robin’s 30th, right?**TROUBLED BLOOD SPOILERS** for characters but not plot
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: First Kisses [54]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1022949
Comments: 65
Kudos: 150





	1. Why Not? (aka Champagne at the Ritz)

_Why not?_

It was a question that had occurred to her before they even got to the Ritz, before so much as a sip of champagne had passed her lips, and Robin had been struggling with it all evening.

 _Why not,_ she wondered, as they strolled slowly to their destination, weaving in and out of shoppers and tourists, the Liberty bag with its wrapped bottle of Narciso dangling from her fingers, her lips still tingling from the feel of Strike’s stubbled cheek.

 _Why not,_ she wondered, as Strike rested his hand lightly in the small of her back as he leaned to hold the door for her, and the only feeling that ran up her spine was one of pure pleasure and heat.

 _Why not,_ she wondered, as the waiter showed them to their table and Strike ordered champagne with a confidence that sent that same heat coiling south.

 _Why not?_ The same intrusive two words crept back into her head again and again as they chatted easily, topics ranging from work to family to Arsenal’s prospects for the weekend. Strike was impossibly attractive in the dark suit, his jaw already shadowed with stubble, the crispness of his shirt indicating effort with an iron that she had sometimes wondered if he even owned. It was hard to remember a time when she’d thought him too big, too shambling, too hairy, a poor contrast next to handsome Matthew. A subtle hint of lavender reached her even over the delicate scent of her beautiful new perfume that Strike had helped choose, and the two scents combined to wreathe a magic around them, a bubble of happiness where only the two of them existed.

Maybe she was being fanciful. Despite taking it slowly, she’d had the best part of half a bottle of champagne now on an empty stomach. It was almost half past seven, and Robin was sipping her last glass slower and slower, afraid that her birthday evening was about to end and wanting to draw it out as much as possible.

She tried to lay out before herself the reasons _why not._ They were still friends, and colleagues. The fact remained that their agency, which was the crowning achievement of her life, in which they were, now, almost equal partners, relied upon a good working relationship between them. Relied on them being friends and colleagues first and foremost. If she... _What, Ellacott?_ She asked herself. _What would you actually do? Say something? Try to kiss him?_ It was too risky.

And perhaps even more importantly, he was her best friend. Even if she could convince herself that their business would survive such a complication of their personal relationship — and in her optimistic moments she was confident it could, confident that Strike cared every bit as much about the work as she did, if not more, and that they would sort out how to continue to work together somehow — where would it leave their friendship? Was there a way back from what she might say, what she might do, a way back to this easy, relaxed chat, this gentle spark between them that they both, despite acknowledging that Ilsa thought they’d make a good couple, carefully ignored?

That was what troubled her most. This new relationship between them, that had been cemented by Strike’s declaration of affection one dark, whisky-tinted night in the office, was deeply precious to her. She’d sensed Strike’s resistance to allowing a bond to grow between them from the very beginning, knew that he’d held her at arm’s length for years. From their ridiculous shared pretence that he wasn’t sleeping in his office when she met him right through to their possibly even more ridiculous shared pretence that he’d driven four hundred miles and gatecrashed her wedding simply to offer her her job back, their friendship had grown torturously slowly. Strike was a deeply private man, and even though she understood more, now, about what went on beneath the surface, what past events and experiences lay behind a determined work ethic and an even more determined solitude, they had somehow reached a point where gentle teasing, the buying of gifts, kissing on the cheek on special occasions, were acceptable. She’d be heartbroken to go back. And back they would go, if she made a move that was unwelcome.

Would it be unwelcome, though? Sometimes she was very, very sure not. Deep down, she knew he shared at least some of her feelings. That hug on the stairs at her wedding. The almost-kiss in a hospital car park. The quiet connection in the near dark of the office, when she’d been so sure he was thinking what she was thinking, trying to decide whether to take things another step, or leave them where they were.

No, she didn’t think he would reject her. Not immediately. But what would happen after their first kiss, after a few dates, after - she swallowed - they had sex? She still didn’t know how he really felt about Charlotte, but she knew that his ex was never quite out of the picture. Maybe he wasn’t even emotionally available for anything more than friendship. And she could never ask him. Some things were a step too far.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Strike said, grinning, and with a start Robin realised the conversation had ground to a halt. Flushing, she cast about for something safe to say from the maelstrom of thoughts in her head.

“I like this,” she said eventually, smiling at him.

“The champagne?”

“Yeah, but no. I mean this. Us. This evening, it’s been lovely. Thank you, Strike.” She smiled at him, and he smiled back and then dropped his gaze to the champagne bottle for a moment before slowly, hesitantly raising his eyes back to hers again.

“Me, too,” he said softly. “I, er, booked a table for dinner, too. If that’s not too forward.”

Robin beamed, joy surging through her, and Strike blinked a little. “No, that would be lovely,” she replied, and he grinned again, relieved. “Good.”


	2. To Dinner (aka It’s A Walk in the Park

Strike straightened up, glancing around, and as if by magic a waiter appeared. Within minutes, Strike had swiped his credit card and the two detectives had been reunited with their coats and were weaving their way across the bar to the door.

They stepped out into the newly dark London evening, onto busy Piccadilly with its traffic and bright lights and bustle. Strike stepped aside to light a cigarette, and then indicated left, away from Trafalgar Square and towards Mayfair.

“Where are we going?” A tiny bit tipsy, buoyed by fondness, Robin found herself tucking her hand into the crook of Strike’s elbow unbidden. His coat was rough under her fingers, and she could have sworn, as they stepped sideways to dodge a hurrying, clipped-heeled businesswoman, that he squeezed her hand against his side, just for a moment. From her other hand, the Liberty bag dangled, reminding her of her perfect birthday present.

Strike grinned down at her. “Is curry okay? There’s a lovely little place just down here and to the right somewhere. Haven’t been for years, but it’s still there, I rang and booked. Might take me a minute to find it.”

Robin resisted the urge to lay her cheek against his shoulder. “Curry sounds perfect.”

They strolled on along the edge of Green Park, Strike blowing smoke away from Robin and looking for street names on the opposite side of the road.

“Are we in a hurry?” Robin asked suddenly.

“Not particularly, why?”

“The park looks so lovely at night,” Robin replied. “I wouldn’t usually be able to go. You know, a woman on her own—”

“The birthday girl shall have what she wants,” Strike replied, steering her through a pedestrian entrance next to a pair of intricate blue wrought-iron gates. He paused to grind out his cigarette butt on the edge of a bin and drop it in, and then they were strolling through the park. This early in the evening it was still busy, and well-lit; Robin supposed she probably could have come here alone, but...

“Have you heard from Charlotte?”

It took Robin a moment to register that she’d actually said it, and another to flush dark pink. She sensed Strike’s curiosity as he glanced down at her, and cursed the champagne that had loosened her tongue. But she had to know. She had to know if Strike’s ex loomed as large in his thoughts as she did in Robin’s, now that they were almost in Mayfair where the papers had so recently reported her to be. Maybe the sister she’d been with in the picture in the Metro lived in an apartment overlooking this very park. Charlotte was the only real, concrete barrier left.

Strike didn’t initially answer, strolling calmly although Robin had noticed the falter in his stride and wondered if the mere mention of Charlotte’s name could upset his equilibrium so. She hesitated, but she’d started this now. “I just wondered if she’d got in touch again, after—” She trailed off, unable to bring herself to refer to Charlotte’s latest failed attempt to take her own life.

Strike kept walking, and was silent long enough for Robin to wish with every fibre of her being that she had kept her mouth shut, that she hadn’t raised the spectre of his ex between them, that her arm wasn’t still tucked into his in a way that she couldn’t now remove it without looking pointed, and nor could he step away from what must look like a typical female trap to force him to discuss his feelings—

“Yeah, she did.”

Robin’s heart plummeted, and all she could manage was a tiny “oh”.

“A few days ago, actually,” Strike went on, as though he hadn’t heard her, and Robin’s heart sank further. He was still in touch with his ex, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And recently.

“And?” She no longer wanted to know the answer, but she’d brought up the subject and was determined to see it through to its inevitably painful conclusion.

“She’s doing a bit better,” Strike replied. “She thanked me for what I did. Congratulated me on solving the case. Threw in a spot of emotional blackmail, like she does. Said she’s leaving her husband, but that could easily be a lie.”

He said all of this in a blank, emotionless tone that made Robin wonder if there was pain hiding behind it. Still fervently wishing she hadn’t taken the conversation in this direction, she asked, “What did you say?”

Strike drew a breath. “I wished her well and told her I was changing my number.”

A frisson of surprise followed by a tiny glimmer of hope flickered in Robin’s heart. “And are you?”

“Yeah, I rang up a couple of days ago. They’re sending me a new SIM card in the post. Hasn’t arrived yet.”

He paused as they rounded a corner, and fished in his pocket for his cigarettes. Robin took the opportunity of the break in their walk to move away from him, slide her hand free, step back a little while Strike lit one. He slid the lighter back into his pocket and they set off again along a path next to a row of trees. Strike sighed. “She needs to move on and stop trying to lean on me. She has a husband for that - for now - and family.”

Robin nodded, trying to absorb this new piece of information. Of course Charlotte knew where Strike lived and worked; she had the phone number of the office. She would never be truly gone. But Strike hadn’t changed his mobile number in all the years Robin had known him. She felt sure that this represented a significant step in his determined journey away from the woman who had been the centre of his life for so long and who Robin had often suspected still had at least some emotional hold over him. The woman she forced her thoughts to turn to whenever she was determinedly rejecting the long-buried feelings for her partner that she had so firmly denied to everyone, including herself.

“She said something else, too.”

“Oh, yeah?” Robin didn’t really want to know what Charlotte had to say, but she could hardly not ask, now.

“Yeah, she said she’d started to appreciate people who are decent to everyone.”

“Oh.” Robin blinked at the apparent non-sequitur.

Strike drew on his cigarette, thinking, and blew the smoke away from Robin. “Meaning me, because she was trying to imply I would have done what I did for anyone. Which I would,” he went on, and then paused. “But that made me think of you.”

Robin’s heart lurched a little. “Oh,” she said again, wishing she could bring something a little more erudite to the conversation.

He smiled down at her. “You’re decent to everyone,” he told her. “It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

Robin’s cheeks were hot again. “Well, so are you, then. Charlotte said so.”

“No, I try to be fair to everyone,” Strike contradicted. “You’re actually nice to them. It’s a lesson I could do to learn.” He grinned. “Pat seems to appreciate it.”

Robin chuckled. They paused while Strike took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it to stamp it out under his heel.

“And I could do to learn to be a bit less nice, sometimes,” Robin mused. “I should have told Morris to back off sooner.”

“Morris was a dick,” Strike replied, and Robin began giggling as they walked on again.

“He was certainly keen to prove he had one.”

Strike gave a shout of laughter.

“Seriously, though, Robin. That was proper sexual harassment. I’m sorry that happened to you on my watch. I should have listened to Barclay.”

Robin looked up at him in surprise. “What did he say?”

Strike shrugged. “Nothing concrete. He implied Morris was being...resistant to your authority. But you two seemed to get along, and Pat liked him—”

“I was hoping he’d settle in, see how the team worked.”

“Yeah, well. Better luck with Michelle on Monday, hopefully.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Strike went on. “Enough about work.” And to Robin’s astonishment, he reached across for her hand, picked it up and tucked it back into his elbow as they walked on towards the far gate. “I’m hungry.”

Her fingers still tingling from the feel of his, Robin squeezed his arm affectionately. “You’re always hungry.”

Strike laughed, and suddenly Robin’s heart was as light as it had been when they left the Ritz. Lighter, in fact. Charlotte was on the way out...

After a thoughtful pause while the gate loomed closer, Strike asked in a deceptively casual tone, “Do you hear from Matthew?”

“No,” Robin shook her head. “Not even through Mum any more, thankfully.” Sensing Strike’s quizzical look, she grinned. “Mum’s idea of expressing moral support for me is to tell me every little thing Matthew is up to and be furious about it. Masham is a pretty small place, so she hears the gossip.”

She laughed a little. “Matthew has been unacceptably brazen about bringing Sarah home to meet his family. About taking her to the pub we used to go to, and the same shops. Mum is taking these affronts personally on my behalf.”

Strike chuckled. “Joan used to do that,” he said fondly. “There’s a level of outrage only the family matriarch can access.”

Robin laughed again. “Exactly.”

“But it doesn’t bother you?” Again, that tone, just a little too studiously casual.

“No,” Robin replied, happy to find it true. “We said our final goodbye at mediation. I finally got to say...”

She trailed off, and Strike was quiet, waiting.

“I shouldn’t have married him,” Robin said quietly. “I know that now. I knew it then. But he was so good to me, after I was attacked. He was there when I needed him, and—” She sighed, frustrated. “I know that sounds stupid, now I know he was sleeping with Sarah at the time. But we were already falling out of love back then. And then I needed safety, and security and familiarity, and he gave me that. He didn’t always have the best way of showing it, but... Then I guess I mistook gratitude and security for love.”

They were nearing the gate now, overshadowed by trees. This corner of the park was quieter. Beyond the hedge and fence, traffic still rumbled, but they seemed to be in a tiny oasis of peace. Strike slowed.

“I did the same, a bit,” he admitted. “Charlotte and I kept getting back together, and some of our happiest times were after I lost my leg, when she did so much for me. I thought things were settling down between us, until I started the agency. She just needed me to need her, I guess. It made her feel secure.” He paused. “I mistook passion, and shared history, and support, for love.”

Robin grinned up at him. “We are a pair.”

They had drifted to a halt, almost at the gate, under the trees in this dark corner of the park. Her arm still tucked into Strike’s, Robin was suddenly acutely aware of how close they were standing. His eyes twinkled down at her in the darkness, unreadable in the shadows, and time suspended, hanging electric between them.

“Robin—” Strike’s voice was hoarse.

“Mm?” It was all she could manage around the pulse of her heart in her throat.

Strike hesitated. “I told myself I wouldn’t do this,” he muttered, almost under his breath.

“Do what?”

He sighed. “We’re friends, Robin. I value that above all else. Even the business.”

“Me too.”

“It’s not a good idea.” She could feel him trembling a little where their sides were pressed together, half turned towards one another.

“No,” Robin agreed. She hesitated. _Why not?_ “But—”

As if that were all the cue he needed, Strike leaned down and kissed her.

A small sound of surprise, of happiness, escaped Robin. Her arm tucked through his and the Liberty bag dangling from her other hand, she simply stood and let him kiss her. His lips were cool and soft against hers, and for a few moments nothing else happened beyond the thud of her heart, and then tentatively his mouth opened a little to her.

Robin responded at once, opening up to him, and suddenly his tongue was licking into her mouth and his hand had found her waist through the open sides of her coat; he pulled her gently against him, kissing her thoroughly, and Robin’s head spun. His stubble against her lips, his big hand resting lightly on her hip, his thumb brushing against the side of her dress. The scent of him in her nostrils, the taste of him in her mouth, the feel of his body pressed to hers. She willingly drowned all her senses in him, losing all track of time or awareness of where she was. He angled his head just so, and her clutching hand on his arm tugged him closer and then her tongue was exploring too, chasing his in a way that drew a deep growl from his throat and sent darts of pleasure right to her core.

Eventually, after one minute, or two, or many, Strike drew back, breathing hard, and rested his forehead on hers. Panting, shocked, Robin gazed up him, far too close and dark to read his expression.

“Happy birthday, Robin,” Strike murmured hoarsely, and she giggled a little. “Thanks.”

“Can I buy you dinner now?” He lifted his head a little to look at her properly, his eyes searching hers, asking a different question.

She grinned and nodded a little. “You can.”

Smiling softly, his eyes a little dazed, Strike gently drew back and took her hand in his; tangling their fingers together, they turned and drifted out of the park.


End file.
